I shove past Angelo, ignoring his outraged huff at being called a baboon. Honestly, it’s the truth. His angry face strongly resembles a baboon’s ass at this point.
It’s a hill I will die on.
“And as for you,” I hiss, noting the small bump on Kane’s nose. “I have beef with you!”
“Oh?” A pair of amused silver-gray eyes bore into mine. For a moment, the world stops spinning. Hot damn. The man is sexy as hell. What are they feeding the guys around here?
I bite my lip, entranced, before mentally slapping myself around the face. I can’t afford to get any more distracted. Lukais more than enough of a distraction while I wait for Angelo to realize a divorce would be less painful for all of us.
“You fucking drugged and kidnapped me, you asshole!” The painful memory of him sticking me with a needle has not faded in the slightest.
He rolls his eyes. “Just doing my job, kitten.”
I smile.
Doing his job, eh?
Before he can read my intention, I knee him in the nuts. The bastard’s eyes flare wide in shock as he curls in on himself with a heartfelt groan. Then, to add insult to injury, I push him backward. He tumbles into the pool with an almighty splash while I laugh like a hyena.
Happy days.
Angelo grabs my arm and hauls me inside as Luka tries—and fails—to contain his amusement. I half expect Angelo’s enforcer to come after me, but he doesn’t. He’ll probably wait until he catches me alone before he tries anything.
I’ll be waiting.
Vivian might have pretended I was some demure little princess when she sold me off to the Di Rossi family, but I’m far from that. I can and will fight back with everything I have at my disposal.
A fork.
A sharp knife from the kitchen.
Even a metal nail file I found in a drawer full of makeup.
All three can do a lot of damage to a man.
Especially when rammed into his balls.
“Can you please try to control your aggressive tendencies?” My husband shoves me down into a scuffed leather chair in his officeand stalks over to the drinks cabinet. A vein throbs in his temple as he pours himself a generous measure of whiskey.
Single malt Scottish whiskey. Some luxe brand called Rothmore. Not tried it, but I fully intend to if he leaves his office door unlocked.
“Am I not allowed a big girl’s drink?”
“Stop acting like a five-year-old, and I might consider it,” he snaps in return.
I examine my nails. They’re ragged as hell, and the manicure I treated myself to a while back has mostly chipped off. Not much chance of a fresh mani-pedi while I’m under house arrest, I suppose.
“Your attack dog deserved it.”
Angelo slams his glass down, spilling precious liquor everywhere. “He wouldn’t have needed to fucking drug you if you hadn’t run away!” That thick vein throbs harder in his temple. If it pops, it’s lights out for my husband. Will I inherit his billions if he drops dead?
Probably not.
I wasn’t privy to the negotiations prior to our marriage, but I suspect I’ll get nothing, even if I produce the heir he claims he’s so desperate for.
Not that I’d take a cent of his blood money.
I roll my eyes at his angry rant and continue to inspect my ragged cuticles.
